The port town of Greymore stood as the only developed access point to the ocean in the Nightweavers' domain.
The name alone felt like a stone dropped into deep water, sending ripples through memories that refused to surface whole. The town rose from the mist in crooked silhouettes, all slate roofs and salt-bitten wood, as if the sea had been chewing on it for decades and found it too stubborn to swallow.
As we eased toward an open dock, ropes creaking and hull sighing against the tide, the Deadwood began to draw attention. Curious onlookers, ship captains and dockworkers alike, paused to admire the ship's design. Greymore had always been a popular destination for mercenary captains, and new vessels rarely went unnoticed.
"Easy there, Captain," Natasha said, giving me a quick nudge. "Don't go into the deep end."
My reply was cut short by a call from the dock. "A little early for them, don't you think?" I said, sarcasm dripping as I made my way to the railing, glancing at Natasha.
Another try at hailing the ship had me shouting, "Hold on a tic, I'm coming!" A brief sound of startlement escaped me as I looked down to the docks. What I saw there made a shiver crawl down my spine—and my sudden leap sent the Deadwood rocking. The dock nearly splintered beneath my landing, shards of wood scattering in all directions.
The figure before me barely stepped back, merely making more room to see me better. A wide smile stretched across their face, an almost grandfatherly pride gleaming in their eyes. My cry of, "You should be dead," brought a deep, rumbling laugh from them.
Memories of that night I boarded his ship—and of the day of the storm—flooded me. He had dragged me from my hiding place, as if he had always known I was there. He cast me into the waves, that same laugh ringing in my ears. His scarred face, the left eye missing as if a baby shark had taken it, had been burned into my memory ever since.
The figure's laughter slowly died down, wiping tears from their eyes. "I knew your reaction would be great, and you didn't let me down, boy," the old man said. "Come, let's get a drink." He turned without ceremony, expecting me to follow.
I waited only a moment—long enough to show I wasn't simply obeying. "Natasha," I called over my shoulder, "once the ship's secured, come find me." With that taken care of, I set off after the familiar old man.
~
Farther inland, deeper into the Nightweaver domain in Velhiem's northern region, lay the Crimson Hold—a stronghold that had withstood countless sieges. In the very bowels of the fortress, a dungeon had been carved to house the families of prisoners—a place reserved for the most vile, for twisted experiments, and somewhere most of the members only heard rumors of.
A near-unhearable, hoarse voice chanted a haunting melody. A black-haired figure, wrapped in essence-suppressing chains, continued her song long after her voice had failed her. After the shadows told her that her son had made it to Thessora's embrace, a deep happiness filled her. Luckily, she had drawn the attention of the Lady of Death herself, and her secret blessing kept both of them safe from the family. Her thoughts darkened at the mere thought of them.
Those thoughts soon turned to pure joy as she felt an essence signature she hadn't sensed in a decade. Her chanting softened into a hum, straining her vocal cords less and allowing them to rest. She admired that he already rivaled her power, and that his steady growth continued, no matter how small. But her joy vanished when the vile figure sitting just beyond the bars of her cage spoke: "Care for a drink, dear cousin?"
Pausing her humming, she replied, "Only the blood from the elders' corpses." The cloaked figure chuckled at that and said, "I don't think you'll be served that anytime soon, Vora."
Vora just laughed—a dry, hoarse chuckle—before spitting out, "I think it will be sooner than the elders think. He is almost ready."
The cloaked figure didn't respond at first, then asked, "Who?" Vora merely resumed her humming—the haunting melody of the undead rising from the ocean. A mad giggle escaped her every few moments. This only enraged the figure, and he demanded an answer, but the melody echoed deep into his bones, sending a chill down his spine.
With a snap of their fingers, a shadowed servant knelt beside them. "Have every member abroad check in at once, no matter who they are—on the orders of the Patriarch himself," they growled.
Vora was on the fifth verse of her melody when the servant returned—and he barely survived delivering the news. The figure tossed back their hood, revealing a grotesque face, the still-mutating features marked with signs of Orthkin corruption. "The runaway will die," they said, their voice heated and sharp. She just giggled at that, humming the haunting tune cheerfully.
~
The Wave Treaders' Rest was a small, hole-in-the-wall tavern, hidden in the labyrinth of the port's buildings. It sat on the border between the port and the town itself, with a pleasant view of the ocean from its outside seating. There, sitting at a shadowed table, I found myself face-to-face with the old man—someone who should be dead.
It turned out this was his place—a sanctioned sanctuary of the Wave-Keeper. My so-called masterful attempt at stowing away on a ship full of drunken priests had apparently been anticipated all along. That ship had been there since the day I stepped into the Crimson Hold. They were Thessora's old crew from when she traveled atop the ocean. More importantly, they were a secret group of changeling Mer—the mortal bodyguards of any of her avatars.
The old man before me turned out to be the first mate of that crew—and he had been given the task of watching over me. What I had mistaken for a rowdy bunch of priests was actually a group of bodyguards celebrating the safe return of their charge. I felt a twinge of embarrassment as he recounted that night—how the crew had actively made openings for me, and yet I had still almost been caught.
When he threw me out into the storm, it was straight into my divine mother's essence. Those sent after me were destroyed, while the ship and crew sank beneath the waves, back into Mer territory.
Relief flooded me after hearing that, but what confused me was why he was back here. It must have been written on my face, because the man before me said, "Let me formally introduce myself." The noisy patrons paid us no mind. "Commander Parran, the head of this port's branch of the Wave-Keepers network. You'll find a branch in any civilized settlement with access to the ocean."
"You won't have to deal with any docking authorities—we'll take care of that," he added, followed by a quiet, joking, "My lord." He settled back into his cushioned chair, hands nursing a still-full mug of brew, a smirk playing across his face, that ever-present glint in his eyes refusing to fade.
Sitting there in the dull roar of the crowded tavern, I pondered the years that had passed since I first stepped into that den of vipers—how, with every class and after each lesson, I had been groomed to forget my past; how they had tried to take my true family away from me; how I yearned to wreak vengeance upon those who had dared to separate us.
It wasn't the silence now pervading the tavern that drew my attention, but Parran's baritone voice asking, "What next, Captain?" I scanned the room, noting that all eyes were on me. Each person bore some mark or token tying them to the Wave-Keeper in one way or another. With my gaze settling on the Commander, I declared, "I believe it's time to say hello to the family properly."
As I made my declaration, the tavern's door burst open, and a squad of cloaked individuals streamed inside. Two figures stood apart: one a hunched, imposing figure easily ten feet tall, cloaked like the rest; and leading them, a striking woman in a black sailor's uniform trimmed with green and red. A tricorn hat adorned her head, covered with a bouquet of vibrant flowers.
She led the squad to our secluded table, the patrons tensing in anticipation. Her report drew sheepish chuckles from them: "Ship secured, Captain." They went about their business as I beckoned her to join us. The cloaked crew moved to encircle the table, taking up optimal guard positions, the largest member sticking closest to me.
Surprised, I looked at Natasha, and she shook her head. So the crew were starting to behave more on their own now. How curious. Returning my attention to the table, I introduced Natasha to the Commander. After a quick exchange to bring her up to speed, we set out on the path that would take us to the Crimson Hold—or at least to the edge of its territory.
I had a few errands to run before returning to my island paradise. And a couple of gifts to deliver. I was fairly certain they already knew I was back. Best not to be rude and come home empty-handed. The squad following behind me twitched with excitement. Surprisingly, through the bonds, I felt those still aboard the Deadwood stirring as well—pride and jealousy flowing from them in equal measure.
Natasha herself was practically skipping beside me as we walked along the road.